Midwinter Dance
by Prophetic Fire
Summary: Viren, Viren's wife, Sarai, and Harrow draw intimately close as they spend the Midwinter holiday night together.


It's late, and the combination of the heat from the flames and the mulled wine has left her feeling pleasantly giddy. A few revelers still sing on the streets below, and their carols mingle with the cozy crackle of the fireplace. The festivities had been joyous. One of the best she'd had in many years. Surrounded by good company, she'd danced and feasted and mingled and enjoyed every moment of the splendor that was Midwinter at Castle Katolis. As the hour grew later, she'd tucked her son and daughter snugly into their beds, and then retired to the company of her husband, her husband's best friend, and his wife. Being the King's friend had its perks; they'd all ended up in Harrow and Sarai's room, huddled around an old board game on the floor in front of the fire, passing around first one bottle of that mulled wine, and then another. She's lost count by now of how many games she's won or lost, or how many bottles they've actually opened. But it doesn't matter. What matters is how much love she feels around her.

Or maybe that's just Sarai's arm, snaking around her waist. She looks over at the Queen, who gives her a jaunty smile, holding up their current bottle of wine in a toast.

"To good friends, and good memories," Sarai says.

"Hear, hear," Harrow responds, from across the board game.

"And to not having a hangover in the morning," adds her husband, next to Harrow. He looks serious, but she recognizes the wine-touched sparkle in his eye.

That pulls a chuckle out of all of them. They pass the bottle around once more.

Outside, a new band of revelers strikes up a merry tune. It's a well-loved Katolian folk dance. Harrow staggers to his feet, pulling Viren up with him. "Come on!" he urges. Viren makes a noise of protest, but Harrow has already linked their arms. "You know the steps as well as I do, old friend."

She and Sarai watch as their husbands dance the twisting pattern, trying to keep time with the music, cursing and laughing when they stumble. But their observation is short-lived, for soon Harrow swoops in and draws them both to their feet.

"We need more people!"

She's flung into the dance. First, in Harrow's arms, and she laughs too as she twirls and tries to keep pace. The pattern carries her to Sarai, whose strong steps never falter despite the mulled wine. Then it's back to Harrow for a moment, and then into the embrace of her husband. He's smiling at her, face flushed from the exertion, and he holds her close as they move in and out of the dance.

A wave of emotion swells in her heart. It had been like this, once, when they were first married. And then they'd started having problems. And they'd struggled, and struggled, and tried so hard not to show it, and it had only made things worse. And then Harrow and Sarai had found out anyway. The King and Queen had slowly, carefully, burrowed their way into her and Viren's lives, gently teasing apart the tangled mess of miscommunication and hurt feelings, until somehow—_somehow_—they'd been remade, with understanding, and patience, and trust. And not only was her marriage stronger than ever, but so were their bonds as friends. All four of them.

They repeat the dance pattern several more times, growing progressively more and more unsteady and lighthearted, until finally the music ends, and they collapse in a heap on the chamber's massive bed. She snugs up against her husband's back, as he lies curled into Harrow's side, Harrow's arm around his shoulders. Sarai snuggles against Harrow's other side, Harrow's other arm wrapped around her just as tightly. They're all breathless—dizzy and giddy and buzzing.

"Look at all of us," Harrow pants, a contented smile on his lips. "We're beautiful."

Viren lets out a snort. "You're drunk, Harrow."

"And so are you, and you're a beautiful man. Haven't I ever told you that?"

"…Once, or twice. And you were always drunk."

"And so you don't believe me."

Harrow props himself up on an elbow, leaning over both Viren and herself. "Help me out here," he says, looking at her, "tell him he's beautiful."

She lets out a hum of agreement. "He's right," she murmurs into the back of her husband's neck. "You're beautiful."

Harrow's hand comes up to cup Viren's cheek. "You're beautiful. And brilliant. And I couldn't love you more." And before Viren can respond, Harrow dips down and captures his lips in his own.

If it were any other night, any other time or place or circumstance, she has no doubt her husband would have pulled away. Denied the feelings she has known for years that he harbors. But it's Midwinter, and they're all tipsy and warm and here, and from her position against Viren, she feels more than hears the whimper that breaks, unbidden, from his throat. She snuggles closer, placing soft kisses of her own along the back of his neck. He needs this. And she wants him to have it.

Harrow isn't about to stop, either. He shifts, pressing Viren even more firmly between them, and she knows he deepened their kiss when another moan rumbles through Viren.

But strong arms come around her then, and she finds herself being pulled up into Sarai's lap. "We can't let the boys have all the fun, can we?" Sarai says with a smirk.

She gazes at Sarai, breathtakingly beautiful in the glow of the firelight. Their lips are so close, so close, and she can feel Sarai's fingers tangling in her hair. "No," she breathes, "we can't."

They begin another dance then, the four of them. Its music is sighs, gasps, soft moans and cries. Its rhythm, the shifting of their bodies and the twisting of their limbs. The pattern is no less intricate, the steps no less well-known or well-loved. It's an age-old dance, made fresh each time it's done.

She's not sure where any of them ends and she begins. Her breath is Sarai, her voice is Harrow, her body is Viren. _Viren_. Oh, how magnificent he is. He melts into Harrow, this final barrier between them broken at last. More beautiful twined around Harrow than she's ever seen him before. They belong this way. They should have always belonged this way. They _all_ belong this way. Extensions of each other. And when the dance brings Viren back to her again, the sweet ebb and flow of the steps draws them deeper, closer, more wholly and firmly _united_ than she could ever have imagined. He's incredible. They're all incredible. Together, they are everything.

The music ends, as it always does, a slow fading into exhausted limbs and contented hearts. The mulled wine no longer fires their blood, and the actual fire has faded to embers. They pull the thick blankets up over them, once again snuggling close. Sarai, Harrow, Viren, herself. The soft touches continue. She runs her hand soothingly down Viren's arm, gently kissing the back of his neck. When their hands meet, he twines his fingers with hers, his other hand a cradle for Harrow's cheek to rest in. Harrow mirrors him, tracing his thumb across Viren's cheek, while his other arm holds Sarai close, stroking soft patterns over her shoulder.

"We're so beautiful," Harrow murmurs, shifting ever so slightly to place a kiss to Viren's forehead. "I couldn't have asked for better companions to share Midwinter with."

Viren is already drifting off, but his sleep-slurred voice still asks, "What will this mean…in the morning?"

Ever the pragmatist, her husband. She hugs him tighter.

From the other side of the bed, Sarai chuckles. "I think it means we'll all need to redraft our marriage vows. Katolis can stand to have two kings and two queens, can't it?"

"Of course it can," Harrow answers. Viren hums in agreement. And she herself shares in Sarai's laugh. "To good friends, and good memories. And good _family_. Blessed Midwinter."

"Blessed Midwinter."

"Blessed Midwinter."

Viren just breathes, already lost to slumber.


End file.
